


The Borneo Hunger Games

by ZZO



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZZO/pseuds/ZZO
Summary: Travis Beckman is a journalist looking for a high-profile interview when he gets kidnapped by an ISIS-like terrorist group in Borneo. Their young and crazy leader has an idea to capture the attention of the Western media: bring the Hunger Games to life.





	1. Chapter 1

_Background: This story begins on the last night before the Games. Travis and the other tributes are being held in a hotel, having completed their interviews and training. I will write those parts as well as Travis's kidnapping later, but wanted to get this out there for critiques/suggestions._

_More background: This story takes place in a parallel world where Indonesia, beset by ethnic and religious divides, becomes the target of radical separatists (the _Free Nusantara State)_ who take control of most of the island of Borneo. Their fierce leader, Rizal Manaf, dies and leaves his much crazier and erratic son Sofyan Manaf in charge (think Kim Jong-un). In a bid to cement his own legitimacy as well as draw the eye of Western media to their cause (and frankly, because he's a spoiled child who loved the books), Sofyan plans a real-life Hunger Games with tributes from America, the U.K., Germany, France, the Netherlands, and Australia. _

 

 

I make myself a hot chocolate and sit on the couch to drink and mull things over. As I sip from the mug, I find myself wanting a better distraction. Something to pull my thoughts away from self-pity. That’s when I see the books on the shelf again.

No, it’s too tacky. They put me in this room with nothing but those books because they want to film me desperately poring over the pages for hints. I just can’t stomach the thought of Sofyan Manaf, with manchild glee, watching my facial expressions as I dive in. If I read them, I’m admitting that he succeeded in bringing the Games to life.

Ines wakes me up before dawn, gives me a hospital gown to change into, and leads me up to the roof. The other three Americans and their stewards are waiting already. When the sun is just visible over the bay, a helicopter arrives. How FNS came to own it is hard to say—possibly it’s been supplied by Iran or Russia. The eight of us clamor inside the cabin.

As we take off over the city, we get only a few seconds to look out the windows before they’re closed by Ines and the other stewards. We’ll have no clue where the arena is.

“Put these on”, says Linda’s steward. He passes around metal bracelets equipped with a tiny screen. “They’ll track your heartbeat and location. You shouldn’t be able to take them off, but don’t try anyway. It’ll be considered cheating.”

He continues as we don the clunky bracelets. “The catabombs under the arena couldn’t be built. Instead you’ll be doing individual prep in temporary structures. You’ll need these,” he says, handing us familiar black bags, “as we move you from the helicopter. While you’re in the arena, some fixed cameras will be set up, but there’ll also be cameramen with armed guards. You’re not to interact with them at all. It’s cheating. Now have some breakfast.”

It’s an hour’s ride before I feel the helicopter slow for landing. Breakfast isn’t sitting well. Up until now I was able to believe that somehow this wasn’t happening, but now we’re past the point of elaborate torture. I twirl and rip my leg hair compulsively as I feel us descend. The helicopter touches down and the rotors slow. We’re here.

A guard walks me with a gun against my back from the helicopter and Ines takes off my blindfold. My prep room is a tall white tent the size of a large bedroom, with no windows and a tarp floor. My pedestal is in one corner. The only difference between it and the real deal is a steel rod emerging from the back which holds up a circular shower curtain rod with black fabric attached. Ines sees my puzzled look.

“It’s to block your view as they deconstruct these tents and set up.”

“Will someone tell me when I can open it?”

“The fabric will detach on its own. You just have to stay inside.”

I nod and turn my attention to the table that’s been set up with food, water, and my outfit for the Games. My appetite is completely gone, but I sip the water just to feel like I’m preparing. In truth I have no clue how to ready myself for what’s coming. I try to listen for anything that’ll help, but all I hear is the sound of guards talking outside and helicopter rotors spinning.

“How long?” I ask.

“A half hour at most. Let me help you put on your outfit.”

Brown hiking boots, thick socks, long cargo pants, and a tan cotton shirt have been provided for me. Ines insists I let her lace my boots, and as she does, I can see her eyes watering. But she just sniffles and pulls herself back together.

“That should do it.” She stands up and grabs my hands. “I know you think I’m just like the rest of them. I understand that. But I truly believe you can win this.”

I manage to say thank you, but inside I can barely keep it together. Part of me thinks she’s just saying that to clear her own conscience. She’s wondering how she’ll sleep at night after I die.

We spend the remaining time sitting side by side on a simple bench. There’s nothing but anxious thoughts running through my brain. Death is hard enough to come to terms with, but what I fear most are bladed objects: swords and knives. I had a nightmare last night that I was caught in a net, begging Miles not to get any closer with his big sword. I woke up as he pushed it into me.

A nasally recording of Sonyan Manaf announces that it’s time to get on our platforms. Ines walks me up and draws the fabric closed behind me.

“Good luck, Travis,” she whispers.

And now I wait. I can hear them deconstructing the tent around me. I almost wish I were locked in, so I wouldn’t feel the suicidal temptation to bolt early. Before long the helicopters are starting up and their whirring fades into the distance. For one tense, quiet minute I feel like I could be the only person for a hundred miles. _This can’t be happening_.

Sonyan Manaf’s heavily accented voice breaks the silence, booming more loudly now, from the direction I know instantly the Cornucopia will be in.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the _first_ Hunger Games begin!”


	2. Chapter 2

Tall jungle trees—lots of them. In every direction. And the sound of birds shrieking as they huddle in the canopy. The land around the Cornucopia and tributes is hard-packed dirt, but walk anywhere else and you’re in dense lowland jungle. I look around for a direction with a strategic advantage, but there is none. Just scrub and tall, skinny trees with lush tops. Not so at the Cornucopia, a giant steel horn with a mouth twenty feet high, which is stacked to the brim with the supplies that will determine who lives and who dies here—I see water, weapons, backpacks, and sleeping bags already. It’s all been stacked in a mound right at the mouth, with nothing on the outskirts. And I’ll have to decide whether I run in and fight for it.

I’m weighing my options when, six or seven circles to my left, the German woman steps off her metal plate. She walks deliberately towards the nearest cameraman until his armed guard fires three rounds at her, and then falls with a squeal. The whole thing takes less than four seconds. Some tributes cover their mouths with their hands in shock as they process what just happened.

The German woman’s death snaps me into pragmatic focus. I am not a live off the land kind of guy. I need those supplies badly. This terrain is completely hostile to me and I won’t survive without help. On the part of the mound closest to me, I see a gray backpack stuffed with what I desperately hope is food and supplies. And next to it, a long black stick that looks like a scepter. In the final seconds, I position myself to make a dash across the flat plain. This is it. . .

The gong fires. I can hardly feel my feet but somehow I know I’m moving faster than the others. If someone reaches the mound before me, they must be around the other side because I don’t see them. I’ve picked up the gray backpack and am reaching down for the scepter when a massive force suddenly slams into me from behind. It’s the other American man. He’s body slammed me into the mound. My head hits something, hard, but there’s no time to think about it.

“Get _off_!” I yell, but the man is much heavier than me and has me pinned. I didn’t expect someone so overweight to be so fast. Now precious seconds are ticking by with him scrambling to wrap his hands around my neck and me punching him away. And then I see the scepter, which has fallen to the ground in our struggle. In one clean movement I prop it up with my leg, grab it with my left arm, and swing it with all I’ve got at the man’s head. He falls to the side and I pull myself off the mound.

My head throbs every time my heart beats. I try to orient myself. The Cornucopia is now alive with action. At least eight tributes are battling it out around me. One of the Dutch women is defending her male counterpart with a knife while he frantically grabs items behind her. Behind them about twenty yards, a body lies face-down.

A man, I think from France, notices me standing around and pulls out his long white bow. I run towards the back of the Cornucopia, hopefully blocking his line of fire with supplies. Each step brings on chest pains and my vision is going gray, but I have to get out of here. I continue through the trees, stopping only to put my backpack on properly. Up ahead I see a tribute dissapearing into the bush, so I adjust my angle to the left thirty degrees and press forward. I’ve managed to hold on to my scepter, thank god.

For the next half hour I walk and jog through a scarily uniform jungle. The ground and scrub is drier than I thought, which is good, but I have no way of knowing how far I’ve travelled. Especially with this head injury. I’m forced to stop when the throbbing gets too intense to handle standing. A rock about waist high is the best cover I can find.

Might as well unpack the backpack. I’m a sitting duck anyway. It’s very well made, with pockets on the sides and carabiners dangling from cloth straps. I unzip and take a peek. Inside there’s a jar of peanut butter, a full water bottle, first aid kit, an elastic rope, sunglasses—

The first cannon blast gives me a shock. I count along as it fires. One, two, three, four, five. . . just five. The bloodbath must be over. And with five dead, that leaves nineteen competing to win. My head throbs again and I think of my fight with the other American. Did I land a fatal blow? It’s all a blur now.

I sip some water and bite my nails. Deep down I knew I would do what it takes to defend myself . . . becoming victor by definition means the others can’t survive . . . so whether I do the killing or not should be morally tedious. But it doesn’t seem tedious at all. In fact, it feels like a crushing weight on my chest. Why did he have to attack me? The thought crosses my mind that if I survive this, half the country will hate me. But that’s too presumptuous to consider while I lay defenseless in the jungle.

If I can’t kill people and I can’t kill myself, there’s only one option left. Escape. Somewhere in this jungle I know there’s a village. I’ll take my chances with the locals, call home or the embassy, and be home before Free Nusantara can hurt my family. We’ll go into witness protection.

Yes, this is the plan. I repack the backpack, taking two aspirin from the first aid kit, and head out.


End file.
